


My Brother's Christmas Present

by TasarienOfCarasGaladhon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas at the Holmes', Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, His Last Vow Spoilers, Mycroft knows whats' up, Mycroft really does care, Protective Siblings, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:57:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1364845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon/pseuds/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's drugged me, he's lying to me, and he'll steal from me once I'm unconscious. And yet, as soon as I wake up, I'll go and rescue him.</p><p>Call it my big brother's instinct.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Brother's Christmas Present

Sometimes I wish I had an idiot for a brother. I'm well aware of the futility of such a wish, but it comes out now and again, when I see Sherlock diving headfirst into battle with opponents beyond his skill. He's too clever for his own good, and it makes him vulnerable. I should know; I've only rescued him from Serbian dungeons, drug overdoses, science experiments gone wrong, bullies, and five of the world's most dangerous men. The fact that all of this happened between the ages of five and thirty-five is even more alarming.

 

Here we are, together at the Holmes family cottage for the first time in years. I'm in the kitchen with my mother and brother, head pounding from the awful music. December 25th—what a ghastly prospect.

 

“Oh, dear God,” I can't help but moan. “It's only two o'clock. It's been Christmas Day for at least a _week_ now.”

 

I hear Sherlock snort quietly in his seat, but he says nothing. He's busy reading the newspaper.

 

Ah. A victory for Charles Magnussen, then. Lady Smallwood will not be pleased, and neither is my curly-haired dolt of a brother.

 

“How can it only be two o'clock?” I mutter. “I'm in agony.”

 

“Mikey, is this _your_ laptop?” Mummy asks, pointing to it. Of course she'd notice it only _after_ covering it in potato peelings. Mother is typically scatterbrained for a mathematical genius.

 

“On which depends the security of the free world, yes...” I smile through my irritation... “and you've got potatoes on it.”

 

“Well, you shouldn't leave it lying around if it's so important,” she scolds, forgetting that I'm a grown man and immune to that tone. 

 

“Why are we doing this?” I ask. “We _never_ do this.”

 

I know why we're doing it. Rather, I have formed an educated guess, and I'm sure it will be confirmed. Tonight, we are all chess pieces on Sherlock's board, or so he thinks.

 

Mummy leans forward to glare at me. “We are here because Sherlock is home from hospital, and we are  _ all  _ very happy.”

 

I put on my best, falsest smile. “Am  _ I _ happy too? I haven't checked.”

 

No offense, little brother; I  _ am _ glad you survived a gunshot by a professional assassin, and if I guess correctly, you are about to hare off half-cocked to try and get me a Christmas present. But surely, this is a form of torture!

 

Mummy picks up her basket again. “Behave, Mike!”

 

How I  _ despise _ that nickname.

 

“ _Mycroft_ is the name you gave me,” I insist, “if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end?”

 

William Wiggins interrupts then, handing my mother a glass of punch. “Mrs. Holmes?” 

 

“Oh!” she says, taking it. “Thank you, dear!”

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sherlock watching them. I don't like the look on his face, and my suspicions are immediately heightened. Of course, he'd never admit to it outright; I'll have to worm it out of him.

 

“I'm not absolutely sure why you're here,” Mummy continues, looking at the junkie.

 

I've had Mr. Wiggins investigated, naturally. Anyone Sherlock meets in a drug den will find himself under my scrutiny, although Bill is no criminal mastermind, just a master of poor life choices with above-average intelligence.

 

“ _I_ invited him,” Sherlock says, unnecessarily.

 

“I'm his protégé, Mrs. 'olmes,” Wiggins elaborates. When 'e dies, I get all his stuff, an' 'is job.”

 

You're demoted to average intelligence, Mr. Wiggins.

 

“No,” Sherlock objects calmly. He's reading the paper again.

 

“Oh,” Bill amends. “Well, I help out a bit.”

 

“Closer,” my brother agrees.

 

Mummy looks at the junkie with renewed interest. Anyone that appears as a 'friend' of Sherlock's is alright in her books, no matter how raggedy. John Watson is her favorite person in the world right now.

 

“If 'e _does_ get murdered or something...” Wiggins continues, and I fight the urge to flinch as Mummy turns pale.

 

“Probably stop talking now,” Sherlock orders from behind his newspaper.

 

“Okay,” the other man agrees.

 

“ _Lovely_ when you bring your friends round,” I tell Sherlock, still watching Mummy out of the corner of my eye. No one lives forever, but killing your own parents through shock is _not_ the done thing. Then again, Sherlock has never cared for conventions.

 

Mummy puts down her glass, with a bit more force than necessary.

 

“ _Stop_ it, you. Somebody's put a bullet in my boy...” she says, walking towards Sherlock. Then she turns to her oldest. “...and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely _monstrous_.”

 

Oh, Mummy. If you only knew, you would be torn between duty and love, as I am. How I'd  _ love _ to put a bullet in the woman who nearly killed my little brother, out of a selfish desire to live a lie. How it hurts that I can't, because Sherlock would never forgive me. After all my warnings about sentiment, he still got involved.

 

Mother walks away with a teacup for Alice, or rather, Mary. How ironic that the person she hates so bitterly is one and the same as her pregnant houseguest.

 

Suddenly, Sherlock looks at his watch. Is he late for an appointment? Or waiting for something to happen?

 

My eyes land on Mummy's empty glass of punch, and my own half-empty one. Has Sherlock had any punch? No, he has not. And the only person to serve that punch...Wiggins, of course. Chemist. Top of his class, before the drugs. 

 

Oh,  _ Sherlock _ .

 

“Brother mine, shall we step outside for a smoke?” I offer, keeping my tone nonchalant. “I find all this Christmas cheer a bit...stifling.”

 

“Yes, it is that,” Sherlock agrees, standing. He's watching me for signs, I can tell.

 

Whatever he's drugged us with, I cannot feel the effects yet. I suspect a sedative, harmless in small doses. It won't cause any permanent damage, unless I misread Wiggins completely.

 

I know I haven't.

 

My brother and I bundle up and head outside, enjoying the respite from Mummy's hovering, the tension between Dr. and Mrs. Watson, and those awful carols. To my surprise, Sherlock offers me a cigarette.

 

“So much for quitting,” I say wryly, offering my lighter in return.

 

“Living abroad,” Sherlock says, shrugging. “It's easier to sustain bad habits away from London.”

 

I'm rubbish as a big brother and I know it. Where did Sherlock pick up smoking if not from me? I know he was stealing my cigarettes as young as twelve, and I did nothing to discourage it.

 

For a few minutes, we say nothing. Neither Sherlock nor I enjoy small talk; it is useless for people like us, who can see in faces and clothing what others must hear in words. He's going to meet Magnussen tonight, I feel it in my bones. Dread does not begin to cover my feelings—he is in over his head.

 

I seize my chance, knowing that I'll be unconscious soon.

 

“I'm glad you've given up on the Magnussen business,” I begin, lying from the start. I am _not_ glad and I know he has not given up. My surveillance team saw them together at the caf é, and I know my brother.

 

Don't go, Sherlock.

 

“Are you?” he asks, feigning innocence. 

 

Liar. He knows I know.

 

“I'm still curious, though,” I admit. “He's hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you hate him?”

 

I really want to know this, and to my disgust, I have not deduced it from my brother's behavior. Not even Moriarty, who threatened Sherlock's nearest and dearest, received this kind of response from Sherlock. What makes Magnussen so special?

 

Sherlock turns to face me, and I see true anger in his eyes, enough to shock me. “Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets! Why don't _you_?”  
  


Lying again, little brother. How was Smallwood worthy of such anger? He was not different; he was just another rich man who fell for a pretty face and brought down scandal around his ears. This is about something else, and we both know it.

 

For a moment, I wonder if it's me. I know that Magnussen would love to have me under his thumb, and I've not made it easy for him. But the balance of probability points to the Watsons. I'll bet my favorite umbrella that Magnussen put John Watson in that bonfire.

 

“He never causes too much damage to anyone important,” I say, nonchalant. Half-truth. “He's far too intelligent for that. He's a businessman, that's all, and occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil, not a dragon for you to slay.”

 

Sherlock smiles to himself.

 

“A dragon slayer,” he repeats, walking towards me. “Is that what you think of me?”

 

I smile back. For a moment, I see little six-year-old, wearing a homemade pirate hat and waving a sturdy branch. “No. It's what you think of yourself.”

 

Mummy opens the door, too soon for our liking.

 

“Are you two smoking?” she calls out, crossly.

 

We both turn like naughty schoolboys, hiding the cigarettes.

 

“No,” I say quickly, as I have so often done in the past. Call it big brother's instinct.

 

“It was Mycroft!” Sherlock says, and I bite back a laugh. Of course he would, the brat. Have I learned nothing in thirty-five years?

 

We wait until Mummy goes back inside, and I shoot Sherlock a half-hearted glare. The drowsiness is setting in at last. I wonder how long I have left.

 

Sherlock takes another drag from his cigarette, and I start moving, trying to stay awake as long as possible.

 

“I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline,” I say at last.

 

“I decline your kind offer,” Sherlock obliges. We've been through this before; MI-5 and MI-6 both tried to recruit my brother in the past, despite my best objections. To my infinite relief, he has never accepted.

 

“I shall pass on your regrets,” I answer.

 

“What was it?” he asks.

 

“MI-6,” I tell him. “They want to place you back into Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months.”

 

My little brother lowers his cigarette and turns to look at me. For once, he looks surprised.

 

“Then why don't you want me to take it?” he asks, bewildered.

 

“It's tempting,” I say, lying through my teeth. “But on balance you have more utility closer to home.”

 

As if I'd ever send my brother to his death! Does he not know me at all?

 

“Utility! How do _I_ have utility?”

 

I sigh to myself, remembering the many, many arguments we've had about his career choice. With a slight shrug, I give him an answer.

 

“Here be dragons.”

 

The cigarette he gave me is awful. I cough, fighting the urge to sleep.

 

“This isn't agreeing with me. I'm going in.”

 

I let the cigarette fall to the floor and step on it.

 

“You need _low_ tar,” Sherlock calls out, derisive. “You still smoke like a beginner.”

 

Oh, brother mine. If only I'd kept my horrid habits to myself!  
  


I don't know how much time I have left; minutes at best. Before going inside, I give my brother parting words, that I hope will stay with him a while. I know that when I wake up, I'll have to fix his latest mess, and he might hate me for it.

 

“Also,” I say, honest for once, “your loss would break my heart.”

 

I hear him choke.

 

“What the _hell_ am I supposed to say to that?” he asks, almost indignant. The _how dare you change our sibling dynamic?_ goes unspoken.

 

I turn to face him. “Merry Christmas?” I offer sarcastically.

 

“You _hate_ Christmas,” he answers stubbornly. 

 

He's right, of course. And this Christmas might become the most hated of all.

 

“Yes,” I agree. “Perhaps there was something in the punch.”

 

There's no perhaps about it, and we both know that. However, no amount of sedatives in the punch would have made me say what I did, and we both know  _that_ , too.

 

“Clearly,” Sherlock tells me. “Go and have some more.”

 

I return to the kitchen, but I stay well away from the punch. I'll play along for now, and fall asleep right on schedule. I will not  _stay_ asleep, not when my brother is playing games with Charles Magnussen.

 


End file.
